<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Fading scars by Yaga97</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23175814">Fading scars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yaga97/pseuds/Yaga97'>Yaga97</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Branding, Hell, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Whiteley Foster's art, Multi, Torture</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:02:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,383</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23175814</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yaga97/pseuds/Yaga97</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley was right. Hell doesn't send a rude notes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub &amp; Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fading scars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts">WhiteleyFoster</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>English isn't my native language and I still make mistakes (a lot of them) and my beta reader is pretty busy right now, so there may be few mistakes here.<br/>It will be two parter probably, but first chapter is directly inspired by Whiteley Foster’s art (https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the). It won't be the most original piece of text around, probably, but I wanted to try and write anyway, at least as writing exercise.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley felt as if someone splinted his skull in half. Which would be problematic, because that would mean that he’s been discorporated. Blackened stone walls around him and intense smell of sulfur seemed to confirm it. And even if he was in Hell's good books right now, thanks to this whole French Revolution bullshit, he still would be buried in paperwork. Satan in Ninth Circle, everything but that!</p><p>Groaning quietly, Crowley tried to touch his head, but something stopped him by keeping his hands behind his back. He couldn’t move his legs either. And he was laying on the wet floor, apparently.</p><p>Uh-oh. Okay, now that was concerning.</p><p>“Took you long enough, Crawley” it was Beelzebub’s voice. They sounded calm, but it was quite deceiving,</p><p>“Bee!” Crowley tried to look as relaxed as possible. At the same time he tested restrains on his wrist, which were hellfire-forged shackles apparently. “Hi! Long time no see, huh? Just been in Paris. Beautiful carnage, marvelous simply, you would be delighted. And Hank too, of course”</p><p>Hank, fly in question, buzzed from its place on Beelzebub’s shoulder. Prince of Hell scoffed completely unimpressed and crouched in front of Crowley. The serpent demon could see cold raging fury in Prince’s eyes.</p><p>“I was covering your bullshit long enough, Crowley” they hissed grabbing his hair and forcing him to look at them “Even my protection has its limits. Someone noticed your little stunt in Bastille”</p><p>“Wha…?” Crowley felt his blood ran cold. No. Nonononono… They found out about Aziraphale. What if they dragged him to Hell as well…</p><p>Someone entered the room. Beelzebub took a deep breath to calm themself and grabbed Crowley’s arms to force him to stand up.</p><p>“Duke Hastur” Prince’s eyes were still focused on Crowley’s face, while other demon shuffled behind their back “Everything ready, as requested?”</p><p>“Yes, my Prince” Crowley could hear malicious joy in Hastur’s voice. Before he could even process what was going on, Beelzebub led him to a chair and forced him to sit down. “Oh, this is going to be fun”</p><p>Now Crowley noticed a wooden case Hastur brought. He could see a handles of… pokers, maybe? Some metal rods for sure. Beelzebub looked at pokers with passive face. They seemed to consider something. Finally they grabbed one of rods and lifted it. Crowley’s pupils narrowed from fear.</p><p>Stigma iron. Fucking stigma iron with one of Hell’s sigils at the end, Leviathan’s cross to be precise. Crowley shivered feeling Beelzebub’s cold gaze on him.</p><p>“Demon Crawly, Serpent of Eden” snapped Prince of Hell creating small ball of Hellfire in their hand and putting sigil in it “You’ve been seen fraternizing with enemy’s agent. Incident was reported by present here Duke Hastur. Because it’s first incident of such nature, it was decided that all you need is a reminder. To who you should be loyal. Duke Hastur, his shoulder”</p><p>“Yes, my Prince” Hastur’s voice was high pitched from excitement. Crowley’s his chest tighten when his shirt was ripped open to expose his skin. Until now he didn’t notice how cold the room is. Beelzebub finished heating iron up and prepared to press it.</p><p>“My Prince” Hastur suddenly spoke “Please. Let me do this”</p><p>Shit.</p><p>If it was Beelzebub, it would take as much as it needed to be. Hellfire couldn’t kill a demon, but left wounds and even scars that healed slowly, causing constant pain. If Hastur got a job, he would press a stigma iron so hard that injury would last for few centuries, at least. And denying loyal follower a chance to prove his devotion would look suspicious, in Hell’s eyes.</p><p>“Fine” Beelzebub gritted their teeth and handed a tool over. They weren’t happy about it, but there was no way to them risking their own neck in this whole debacle.</p><p>The moment when Hastur’s slimy fingers tightened on handle of stigma iron, Crowley started to trash and squirm, desperately trying to escape. Beelzebub cursed quietly and restrained him. Hot tears flowed down his cheeks and desperate pleas escaped his mouth.</p><p>“Pathetic” laughed Duke and then pain swallowed everything.</p><p>It was icy cold. It burned his flesh to bare bones. He wanted to just fucking die. He begged them to let him die.</p><p>He was lying on floor again curled up in ball, sobbing and whimpering from pain. Restrains were gone. Someone, Beelzebub probably, whispered something to his ear. Go home. Stay low. You and that angel of yours.</p><p>After what felt like eternity, Crowley managed to stand up and on shaky legs left. Doors were unlocked, no one stopped him. They were staring at him and were whispering between each other, but he didn’t care.</p><p>Go home. Just go home.</p><p>But where?</p><p>London. London felt home-ish enough. He had a flat there, from two decades more or less. He vaguely remembered where Hell’s gate to England was.</p><p>Crowley couldn’t recall how and when he got to his apartment. Last thing he remembered was dusty pillow under his cheek.</p>
<hr/><p>When he woke up, pain was still there. Along with a lot of dust on furniture and on him. His hair were now so long that tangled strands were laying on floor around the bed. A brand on his shoulder looked terrifyingly fresh, even after so many years. Well, that was easy to predict.</p><p>Apparently he’s slept for few decades and completely missed a dawn of new era, arrival of new social customs and many other things, including few wars. It was horrifying, actually. He could miss a decade, but this… Too much to catch up, too many different things changed. And humans…</p><p>They had potential to be good or evil. And yet so many things in this period seemed like designed by Hell. Toxic smoke covering a London sky, so many people living on the streets and so many people convinced that this is right and just. God’s will. All this cacophony of fear, pain, sadness, greed and sadistic glee made him throw up twice.</p><p>He needed to talk with Aziraphale. He managed to contact him, thanks to young boy who was delivering something to family living next doors. Apparently Angel’s bookstore became somewhat of local attraction in Soho, because little messenger knew who he was supposed to find almost immediately.</p><p>Aziraphale came to Crowley’s flat next morning. If demon’s look worried him, Angel hid it well. He looked so stiff, as if he tried to become embodiment of these times. Maybe he also felt what Crowley felt from humans and tried to block it out. It made sense, actually. Aziraphale helped him with his hair and found some fitting clothes. Crowley’s miracles still were very weak. He needed time. Luckily all this false piety around could make process faster.</p><p>He asked for another meeting another day. He wanted to adjust a little on his own. They met again week later, in St. James’s Park. This time Crowley had plan to make sure that next time... Screw this, there won’t any next time!</p><p>“Out of question!”</p><p>Crowley winced. Aziraphale kept his voice low, but his hidden anger was still so strong that it hurt demon’s ears.</p><p>“Why not?” he knew it wasn’t just some favor, but still he didn’t understand why…</p><p>“It would destroy you. I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley.” Oh.</p><p>“That’s not what I want it for” Crowley assured him “Just… insurance”</p><p>“I’m not an idiot, Crowley. Do you know what trouble I’d get into if they knew I’d been fraternizing? It’s completely out of question”</p><p>“<em>Fraternizing</em>?” Crowley flinched nervously. Beelzebub has used the same words then.</p><p>
  <em>Deep breaths, deepbreathsdeepbreaths…</em>
</p><p>“Whatever you wish to call it.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes “I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.</p><p>“I have lots of other people to fraternize with, Angel.” It was supposed to hurt. Emotional blackmail. Crowley never felt like scum that much before.</p><p>“Of course you do” Aziraphale gritted his teeth, feeling some kind of burning in back of his throat. He felt awful.</p><p>“I don’t need you” Liar.</p><p>“The feeling is mutual. Obviously”</p><p>“<em>Obviously</em>” Crowley spitted this word like poison. He threw a piece of paper to water and watched it burn. His hands were trembling and he wanted to scream. A drop of blood appeared on his bitten lip.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>